


Fond

by yeaka



Category: Travelers (TV)
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Grace gets a message.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Fond

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Travelers or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Shopping in the twenty-first is both a blessing and a curse. The isles of the closest supermarket are filled with all kinds of incredible food, all of which she’s never tasted, most of which she could never have even conceived of, which is truly saying something. The first time she visited, she tried to dump one of everything into her cart. Then the cold, hard reality of twenty-first century currency came crashing down. She has an incredibly limited budget, but Trevor won’t give her any more. She tried going right over his head, but Philip offered even less than Trevor did. The original Grace Day’s bank account was a pathetic mess, and being a high school guidance councilor isn’t nearly enough to feed her growing appetite.

She still finds grocery shopping thrilling. She pushes her cart slowly down one isle after another, pulling out different things and pouring over the ingredients, sometimes salivating, sometimes scoffing. Too much of it involves slaughtering animals, which always makes her skin crawl, but sometimes she doesn’t even realize she’s eating bits of a carcass until she looks up certain ingredients. Whoever thought of grinding up the hooves of little lambs to make marshmallows was one sick individual. 

She’s staring at a bag of ‘potato chips’, trying to figure out if bat feces could possibly be sourced ethically, when a small child wanders up to her. Grace takes one look at the tiny human and grunts, “I’m not your mom.”

The child’s eyes gloss over. Grace is ready to physically shoo him away when he opens his mouth and drones, “Traveler Zero-Zero-Two-Seven. You have successfully completed the student-teacher science program mission. Reward incoming.”

Grace _stares_. Her heart’s nearly stopped beating. A messenger. She’s actually gotten a _messenger_. She was furious when MacLaren called her two days ago and assigned her a mission without getting direct contact herself. But she did it. She always does. She’s loyal, even though it sometimes feels like she’s been forgotten. 

She somehow manages to breathe, “I don’t need a reward. It’s enough to follow your Grand Plan.”

The boy steps forward. His arms are open. Then he throws them around her, squeezing around her middle, and Grace is paralyzed until she realizes that _the Director’s hugging her._

Euphoria floods through her. It remembers her. It recognizes her contribution. It still _loves her._

Then the child steps back and looks up at her with big, drawn together brows and whines, “You’re not my mommy.”

She’s not. The closest she’s ever come to motherhood is her care of the Director. It’s gone. And some snot-nosed brat is in her face, no longer even remotely useful. She hisses, “Scram,” and the kid runs off.


End file.
